


Long Distance

by Jubalii



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series, Layton Kyouju vs Gyakuten Saiban | Professor Layton vs. Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney, 逆転裁判 | Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Because I can, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Mutual Masturbation, Oneshot, Pet Names, Phone Sex, Post-Canon, Sorry Not Sorry, Teasing, not graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-20 20:41:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11928870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jubalii/pseuds/Jubalii
Summary: Temporary miles mean nothing.





	Long Distance

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note:
> 
> It’s impossible to write phone sex for some genres!"...challenge accepted ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) Queue Labyrinthian sexting (is it sexting if you call)

_Damn this stupid ringtone!_

   Eve Belduke turned over in bed, hand fumbling for the lamp on the nightstand. She considered herself a peaceful person, one to stew in her own anger before lashing out once the proverbial pot boiled over under the pressure of its contents. However, one thing she hated above all others was being woken in the middle of the night.

 

    For the umpteenth time, she wondered why she had allowed herself to be talked into buying a telephone. Before the reconstruction, cellular service meant a measly one bar at the edge of the dock, if one was brave enough to hold the phone as far over the water as an arm could reach. And to hide a phone in her skintight uniform would have been nigh on impossible, anyway.

 

    To be fair, it was her boyfriend who had nagged her into getting one, after a receiver had been placed on the bell tower to offer internet and telephone service to the good people of Labyrinthia. It had been nice to speak to him on days when, for one reason or another, they couldn't meet. That being said, he seemed to use it more as a means of sending her countless pictures of Constantine in various adorable positions.

 

    She had found it a truly useful contraption, after a few weeks of working out how to make it work. She could send messages quicker than having to track down Lettie, she could be in London for Mr. Cantabella and still answer questions for the reconstruction team, and she could easily take pictures of problem areas in town to reference.

 

    But now, it was just a pain.

 

    She groped for her phone, which was still playing the obnoxious 'Steel Samurai' theme Espella kept putting as her ring tone whenever she left it unlocked. She was forced to open her eyes more than a squint after her fingers found nothing but polished wood. Grumbling, she heaved her upper body from the mattress, looking around to find the phone buzzing merrily on the foot rug, the children's TV theme as annoying as ever.

 

    She grabbed it, pushing her matted curls out of her face before peering at the screen, slightly blurry thanks to the bright LED and the absence of her reading glasses. She didn't recognize the number, or even the area code. A spam caller?

 

    Thinking it over, her mind churning slowly with lack of sleep, she decided that it might have been Mr. Cantabella. He was on a business assignment in the United States, the first overseas trip he'd taken after the risky surgery that had saved his life, but left him dependent on medicine. He'd taken Zacharias with him as a precaution. Eve had wanted to go, arguing her point that she was better fit to deal with the modern world, that she knew his habits, and that she'd probably gain more from a business conference then her boyfriend ever could. However, Arthur had wanted another male, someone who could help if he—as he so bluntly put it—fell in the shower or needed other assistance.

 

    "Besides, it's not as though Zacharias was immune from remembering. He's able to get around a modern city just fine." It was true; she knew that he, along with the rest of the hypnotized population, had regained his memories from the time before the test facility was opened. He never spoke to her about them, and she never asked: it seemed pointless to. She was under the impression that if he wanted to tell her about his past, he would have already done so. She was fine with the not-knowing.

 

    "Hello?" She fully expected to hear the old man, already ready to scold him for calling her at—as her clock so happily informed her—1:30 am. There was a pause, a crackling breath. "Hello?" she mumbled again, hoping it wasn't one of those prank calls that hung up after a few seconds. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

 

    "Not really." Her fingers tightened around the receiver. "Early, I suppose, judging from your voice. Sorry, Eve. Go back to sleep."

 

    "No!" She cleared her throat, trying to get the hoarse edge from it. "Zacharias, I... why didn't you call from your mobile?"

  

    "The wifi's slow here. I think everyone else is on at the same time. I was afraid we'd be disconnected and...." There was a rustling noise in the background that she couldn't place. "Anyway, I didn't mean to call in the middle of the night. Do you want me to hang up?"

 

    "No, no. It's alright." She fell back onto the pillows, rubbing her eyes. "What are you doing?"

 

    "We just finished eating steaks at some sort of communal dinner service. It was the kind where you can't use the same fork for your steak that you did for your salad, which I find to be a waste, but Mr. Cantabella said that's just the way it was done."

 

    "Fancy. Did it taste good?"

 

    "Hmm.... no offense to the chef, but I think I like Rouge's meat better. It's juicer, and she gives me more than three bites." She couldn't help but chuckle; that was about as much as she could expect from him. He didn't care about the quality of the food, where it came from, imported and braised and this and that. He just wanted to eat and enjoy until he was stuffed, and then take a nap on the sofa with her draped over him like a living blanket.

 

    "Well, how is the conference, then?" She thumbed over the speaker icon, so that she could lay the phone next to her on the bed. If she closed her eyes and ignored the static, he could have been laying next to her in his proper space. "Surely you've learned something, right?"

 

    "I've learned a lot, though I don't think be of much help. I don't plan on merging my nonexistent business, or introducing social media to it. And America is a strange country," he added, and she could see the face he was making even with an ocean between them. "Tis intriguing, all the same."

 

    "So you're not ready to take the plunge and become a businessman?"

 

    "Aye, though if I _were_ , I'd keep my ventures within the borders of Labyrinthia. These businessmen all speak of nothing but stress, stress, stress. And the modern world is so... loud." He sighed. "I miss town, where there aren't car horns or airplanes or buses with their—" he paused, thinking, "— _hy-dra-lics_ , I think they called it."

 

    "You miss town."

 

    "Aye. And Constantine."

 

    "Constantine."

 

    "And the bakery."

 

    "The bakery." She couldn't help but scoff. "And I suppose you're enjoying spreading out alone in your bed, without me yelling at you to keep to your own side." She looked over to the vacant sheets where he ought to have been, where he was _supposed_ to be, his absence a yawning void after so many nights of having his blazing limbs flopping over on top of her at all hours.

 

    "Not so," he chuckled. "Sleep is elusive here. But when I think of you, Eve," he sighed again, "The emotion goes beyond mere absence. Saying something like 'I miss you', even as fondly meant as I do for the bakery, and town, and my faithful companion... it doesn't do it justice, when I try to say it for you."

 

    "Say it anyway." She rolled onto her back, staring at the lamplight on the ceiling, oddly colder than the flickering rhythm of a candle. "It's all we've got to say."

 

    "Then... I miss you the most." She smiled, even though he couldn't see her. Even if he thought it didn't do her credit, it was still nice to hear.

 

    "I miss you too. You'll be home soon."

 

    "Three days, if you count traveling," he pouted. "And we've been gone four already."

 

    "Trust me, I know." She hadn't realized how often she saw him until he was gone, a visible space missing from the panorama of her daily life, an empty place behind the bakery counter, the lack of an overenthusiastic embrace in the evenings, her cheeks going unkissed for nearly a business week.

 

    "I wish you were here as well," he admitted. "That's the real reason I called. I wanted to hear you."

   

    "And what if I were there?" she asked. She meant to add that they'd probably be napping anyway, because surely only a few days hadn't dispelled the jet leg. However, the hitch in his breath, almost immediately after her words, made her pause. There was silence, and for a moment she wondered if their line had disconnected after all. She picked up the phone, seeing the numbers still tracking the call time, and furrowed her brow. "Zacharias?"

 

    "I'm here." There was an audible shift, the faint sound of mattress springs creaking, and the rustling noise that she was starting to place as overly-starched sheets. He was on his bed, then.

 

    "What exactly are you thinking about?" She meant to sound accusing, chastising, a proper gentlewoman. A Lady. But she was more curious than offended by any impure thoughts he might have had.

 

    "Do you really wish to know?" _I know that tone. I know **that** tone_. She froze, sliding the speaker off again and pressing the phone to her ear. Even alone, that voice wasn't for speakers; it was meant to be whispered in her ear, breath hot against her neck.

 

    "Zacharias?" she asked again, less sure than before.

  

    "I said, _do you really wish to know_?"

 

    "...Yes." Another pause, shorter than before. "Yes, I do."

 

    "I thought—I'm _thinking_ —about you, being here. These sheets are white, really white, like clouds. I'm thinking about the way your hair would look on them." She looked down at her own sheets, the same nondescript beige that nearly all the homespun bedclothes in Labyrinthia were.

 

    "And?" There had to be more. Surely her hair wasn't the crowning point of his thoughts.

 

    "And you're not wearing that blue flannel nightgown, for one."

 

    "H-how—?!" His laughter cut her off.

 

    "You always wear it when I'm not there. I see it in the bin the next night." _Damn his falcon eyes._

 

    "It's warm."

 

    "Ah," he breathed, and she shivered. "Good, that's good. Can't have my girl getting cold when I'm not around."

 

    "Zacharias...." Her face flushed, body heating up quickly and tiredness put to the side, if not forgotten. Another puff of breath crackled the line, jarring in her ear.

   

    "You _know_ how I get when you say my name like that." He let out a huff, just short of a proper laugh. "It's almost frightening, how much control you have over me with just your voice."

 

    "Maybe you're just used to taking orders from it," she mumbled, somewhat embarrassed. He always said such silly things sometimes, yet they always went straight through her like an arrow; oftentimes, she hadn't realized she'd needed them to be said until he'd already told her.

 

    "Or maybe..." his voice lowered with deadly precision. "Maybe from the very first time I heard it, I knew I'd slay armies for that voice."

 

    "That's—" Stupid, dumb, impossible. "Don't say things like that."

  

    "Even so." It lowered even further, becoming the husky whisper that always made her gave in. If he knew how hard it was to resist that rough edge, she'd be done for. Or perhaps he did know, and always timed it to be the most effective. " _Eve_." She was melting, she had to be, with her face and limbs at such high temperatures. _I can't believe I'm actually going along with this... much less encouraging it!_ Her hips shifted unconsciously on the bed, that voice striking a yearning deep within her.

 

    "You're squirming," he said suddenly, part amazement, part desire. "On the bed. I can hear it."

 

    "I can't help it."

 

    "You're so cute when you do that." She scoffed at the notion, but he didn't seem to hear. "You make me want to get on a plane right now."

 

    "I want you to." Never mind what a stupid idea that was, to spend all that money just to fly back to England. She _needed_ him.

 

    "Send me a picture." She blinked in surprise, holding the phone away from her ear a moment to process the request.

  

    "What?" She swallowed, her voice squeaky with surprise. "I thought you said the wifi—"

 

    "'Tis slow, but I should still get it, right?" There was a quick movement, the sound of a zipper, and then his phone's 'hello' sound as it came out of sleep mode. "C'mon, I want to see you," he pleaded.

 

    "O-okay, hang on a minute." She set the phone on the nightstand, flipping speaker back on as she stumbled out from under the blankets and across the floor to the vanity. She brushed most of the tangles out of her hair quickly, wincing as she hit the worst snags before rubbing her face vigorously with the collar of her gown to remove any traces of drool or lines from the pillow.

 

    She regarded herself in the mirror, trying to spot any minor defects, when her eyes caught the open door of the closet. She'd left it ajar earlier and now she could see the even divide down the middle, her blouses and dresses on the left and his better shirts and pressed pants on the right. A sly grin stole over her face, even as she chided her own mischievousness. It wouldn't hurt to tease him a little, after all....

 

    "Eve?"

 

    "Just a minute," she promised, crossing the room and opening the door fully as quietly as she could. It wouldn't do for him to catch on to her plan, and knowing him—damn that resourceful brain of his—he'd figure it out before she could properly catch him off-guard. Regarding his shirts, she finally picked a plain white one out from the rest and held it up for inspection. Between the two of them, he was better at ironing, having to take care of his own clothing in the garrison. The shirt was without a wrinkle, which meant it hadn't been worn since his turn to do the chore.

 

    She silently stripped, folding the nightgown over her uniform on its stand, so that even the sound of clothing hitting the floor wouldn't draw his attention. Quickly unbuttoning the shirt and throwing it over her shoulders, she shivered at the silky sensation of the fabric sliding across her skin. Looking around, she finally went back to the bed, where the best light was.

 

    "Alright," she said, picking up the phone and poking it into life, sliding the call into the corner so that she could pull up the camera. She pushed all the pillows aside, piling them up on his empty half of the bed so that she could lay flat against the mattress, her fingers threading through her hair and spreading it as best she could before letting the collar of the shirt lay against the bed, just enough so that he could see it was _his_ clothing she wore.

 

    She blanched at the sight of herself in the screen, not seeing anything of real sexiness or beauty in the image of her lying like some half-baked Madonna or Venus against the beige sheets. But his voice sounded in her head, coming from a time when she lamented a picture of herself with bed head and toast crumbs around her mouth taking prime space in his phone's memory.

 

   _'Tis not for your sake, but for mine, and I think you to be beautiful here._

 

    She'd all but demanded he delete it, but he refused with his usual stubborn streak. It was only later she'd found it out to be a memory of the first night they'd truly spent together as a couple, sleeping and living in the same house. For him, it was special, and nothing had been quite as lovely as the privilege of being able to see her in an unkempt state in the morning, half-dead as she shoveled toast into her mouth.

 

    Perhaps this was the same thing. Even as ridiculous as she felt, there was another, stronger feeling that she ought to send it. Setting aside her inhibitions for the moment, she made sure the picture would show just enough—not too much— before schooling her face into what she hoped was a natural, half-lidded smirk. The camera clicked and her face appeared in miniature on the side of the screen; she didn't pour over it, knowing she'd find some fault and delete it, trying endlessly until dawn. Instead, she shyly hit the direct send and typed in his name, waiting until she was certain the face in the bubble was his bright grin before sending it. God, to send it someone else unawares—could she take that sort of mortification?

 

    "There, I sent it."

 

    "Let's see how long it takes," he mused. "What took you so long?"

 

    "Hmm, I wonder," she teased, not letting him have the satisfaction of knowing. "Maybe it's a surprise."

 

    "Oh really?" He took a breath to say something else and then she heard the distinct * _beep-be-beep_ *! of his text alert. "Faster than I thought it would be."

 

    "Well." She turned her face from the phone, although he wasn't there. It was enough to imagine his eyes, darkened with desire, honed in on her as he opened the message. "Well?" she repeated, when he didn't comment.

 

    "Y-you... _cheeky_ —" he bit off with a low curse. "Damn it!" he growled, loud enough to make her jerk.

 

    "What?!" Didn't he like it?

 

    "You _know_ —damn it," he said again, and this time she caught the frustration behind the oath. "You know how much I want you, Eve. This isn't _fair_."

 

    "What do you mean?" Acting coy usually just riled him up, since they both knew exactly what she was up to. This time was no exception.

 

    "You know what you do to me. I've already said that once, you know."

 

    "You asked for the picture," she pointed out. "You knew I wouldn't send something sub par."

 

    "Little witch," he grumbled, but the word was less insult, more frustrated complaint. "Just wait until I get home."

 

    "You're not going to send me one back?" she asked, pretending to be disappointed. He muffled a laugh and then she heard a series of clunks as the receiver was placed on a hard surface. She didn't have to wait long for her phone to light up, signaling an incoming file. She allowed it, a strange excitement hammering away at her heart while she watched the buffering circle eagerly.

 

    He was still dressed, but the momentary _aww_ in the back of her mind left as quickly as it came at the sight of him not in a tie and shirt, not in a 'good' casual jacket, but in a bonafide suite. A fitted suit, gray to match his eyes, following the broad curve of his shoulders, the muscles of his chest barely outlined by the white shirt and the tie snug against his neck. One brow was arched, a confident smirk on his lips that did little to hide the burning, raw emotion in his eyes, the edge of one slightly pointed, doggish canine showing.

 

    Her toes curled against the mattress, biting her lip as she quickly saved the picture. Perhaps it was because she was so used to him, but every once in a while it struck her just how handsome he really was. She always had to deal with other women jealous of her, craving what he clearly had to offer, but she didn't often think about how they were justified in their favor of him. It only made it all the sweeter that he had eyes for her, and no one else. A bit of bragging rights, perhaps, if she were one to brag.

 

    "Well?" he prompted, mimicking her.

 

    "Hmm. Adequate." He choked up, half-laughing, though there was a faint note of uneasiness there. She wondered if anyone else would have picked it up. "Alright," she amended softly, rolling onto her side and holding the phone close to her face, staring at the picture as if she could somehow bring him here with the force of her gaze. "You know what you do to me too. It's all I'll be looking at until you come back."

 

    "When I _do_ come back, I'm not going to care about where I find you. Heads up."

 

    "You're lying." She turned her nose to the sleeve of his shirt, inhaling to see if any of his scent was left after being washed. There was, faint under the aroma of coarse laundry soap. It was comforting, and she let out a soft moan without realizing it.

 

    "I'm not." There was a familiar strain to his voice, the result of him trying to keep himself in check. "I'll take you on the damn bakery counter if I have to. O-or your desk; I've thought about that one before."

 

    "Zacharias!" She was alarmed that his words didn't alarm her, or even ashamed her. Just the thought of him throwing her onto the desk, or even better—her pulling him on top of her—her organized things being thrown into disarray, the cool wood against her bare back as he stripped her of her uniform.... "Zach, don't _tease_."

   

    "Teasing? Who's teasing?" he replied. "I'm merely stating facts."

 

    "What do you do?" She swallowed, unable to believe she was really asking. "When you find me."

 

    "Depends on where I find you. Where are you?" The words were light, playful. Enticing. She closed her eyes, feeling a renewed blush on her cheeks as she thought. She knew, from books and modern media, from articles in glossy women's magazines, from whispered stories in alley, that this was how it started. She knew _he_ knew, from his remembered years living wherever he'd lived before coming to Labyrinthia. And he was starting it, so she shouldn't be shy about telling him anything. But why was this just as nerve-wracking as when he'd seen her naked for the first time?

 

    "I'm... at home, of course." Safe, easy, expected. Nothing to laugh at there.

 

    "At home? Hmm." There was that smugness, rearing its head. She was almost happy he was so far away, so she didn't have to frown at him for acting smooth and all-knowing. "So many places 'at home' can be. The kitchen?"

 

    "No," she scoffed.

 

    "The hall? The foyer. The bedroom, or...." She could almost hear the grin. "The bathroom? The tub, maybe." _God, I'm so red. At least he can't see that._ "I could join you. It'd be a bit like the lake. Do you remember?"

 

    How could she forget? The stupid idea to swim in the lake, in early summer, at night, the water cold enough to nearly hurt and the breeze icy on her wet shoulders, him laughing and calling it 'bracing', her utter regret of this idea until he drew up against her back with the excuse of 'warming her up', his hands wandering over her front, wet limbs sliding, her hair sticking to them both as he slid his hand into her swimsuit bottoms and made good on his promise, _so_ good, worth the cold they both caught from the experience....

 

    "Yes, I remember. But I'm not in the bathtub."

 

    "Where, then?"

 

    "I'm... on the bed, of course. Waiting. And I'm not wearing the nightgown." He stayed silent, and she cleared her throat before continuing. "I'm not even wearing the shirt. I... I just borrowed a pair of your sleeping shorts. A-and my gray tee." _The one you like,_ she added to herself. There was a soft hiss, crackling in her ear. "What?"

 

    "I'm imagining it." He groaned softly.

 

    "What?" she prompted again, biting her lip to keep from echoing the sound.

 

    "I _need_ you and you're 6,000 kilometers away, that's what."

 

    "Just..."

 

    "Just?!" He was truly frustrated now, she could tell. Not that she blamed him. "Just what, Eve?" She didn't respond, but moved her hips against the bed again, this time for effect. "Who's teasing now?" he complained, sullen.

 

    "Me." No point in denying it. "If you _were_ here, I'd take care of you."

  

    "How?"

 

    "You know how." She heard the click of a lamp, and a louder rustling. She licked her lips, the distance between them giving her the courage to say what was on her mind. "Do you plan on... touching yourself?" Even though she was the only one in the house, there was still an inherent naughtiness in saying it as if she could get caught.

 

    "I thought that was a given."

 

    "Well, I'd... trail my fingers down your chest. To your stomach. You're always so warm; it's nice to feel your skin."

 

    "Hmm." There was a pop of static as his arm brushed the line. "The scars get in the way."

 

    "I like them," she admitted softly. "All of them."

 

    "I didn't know that."

 

    "It's true." She rubbed a hand through her hair, tugging on the long locks. "If you were here, I'd kiss every one of them."

 

    "It'd take you a long time," he said ruefully.

 

    "You wouldn't be watching the clock." She tugged harder, eyes closing as she mapped out the familiar path of scars, some raised and shiny, others thin and dull, some little marks and others long gashes where his skin was torn to the meat. "They remind me of what you are."

 

    "A... knight?"

 

    "Brave," she clarified. He let out a little, quiet laugh. "Strong."

 

    "Ah, stop," he ordered sheepishly. "I'm not—"

 

    "Clever." It was too easy to lie there, crooning the traits that made her care so much for him and listening to his growing embarrassment. "Handsome, cunning,"

 

    "Eve, you're making me blush," he joked, though she was sure it was the truth.

 

    "Mine." He faltered, and then his voice lowered to match hers.

 

    "Always." He took a quick breath. "Always, lovely Eve. Smart Eve, warm, tiny, cute, perfect—"

 

    "No—"

 

    "Stubborn," he laughed, with the edge of a pant. "and all mine—"

 

    "Yes, of course." She shivered, holding the phone as if she could caress him through it. "Zach, I want—I want you here, kissing me." It was more of a need really, and almost torturous that it couldn't happen. If only witchcraft were real, and she could wiggle her nose or wink her eyes and have him here to send him back tomorrow. But even that wouldn't work, since once she had him she wouldn't play fair and send him away again.

 

    "I want it too, love," he assured her breathlessly. "'m gonna take a day off when we get back. Gonna make love and then cook you breakfast, and do it again and cook lunch, and again before supper, and some more if we're up to it," he muttered, voice tensed.

 

    "Sounds like a plan," she agreed, hand trailing down her stomach, tickling her navel as it stole past the waistband of her undergarments and between her legs. She let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. "Zacharias, darling—"

 

    "No, not the darling bit, I can't take it even when I _am_ there." She heard him, but the words didn't make sense, seemed out of order, and she ignored them until a better time.

 

    "Darling, please—"

 

    "Shh...." He trailed off into wordless sounds, meaningless murmurs to fill her head while her fingers became his and they were back at the lake, or she was with him in some foreign hotel on white sheets that made him giddy with her hair spread across the pillows, or even better, that he was with her, and it wasn't the middle of the night but afternoon, and there was lunch waiting downstairs, sweets and breads and meat and a basket of éclairs, because of _course_ he'd go overboard by making more than she could eat at every meal, the two of them snacking contentedly in bed without any thought of clothing or getting crumbs in the sheets.

 

    "Eve? E-ve, babe, love, sweetheart—" She made a soft sound when she became coherent again, smiling at the post-orgasmic lull in his voice as he sang every pet name in the book at her, waiting patiently for her afterglow.

 

    "What?"

 

    "Love ya."

 

    "I love you, too." She couldn't stop a yawn from stretching her mouth to its limits.

 

    "Go to bed. I need to take a shower now, anyway." She needed at least to clean up, but the moment he mentioned 'bed' her muscles decided to give up for the night... morning. "Go to sleep, go to sleep," he sang off-key, making her laugh.

 

    "Alright, fine. Don't you stay up late, either."

 

    "Can't promise anything. I have an appointment to stare at a picture of the most beautiful lady in the world. That should eat up most of my free time."

 

    "Zach."

 

    "Well, maybe I can pencil in a few hours. After all, I'm a stressed-out businessman now."


End file.
